by Alison Tyler
That’s when I noticed my girlfriend’s uncle. His face was slack from too much drink, but his eyes had narrowed and a sly grin had crept across his face. Lurid, the look was unmistakably lurid. And it was aimed right at me.
That look—his look—was so penetrating that I felt like he knew my every secret—like whether boys had already parted my legs—and it suggested he had his own secrets, like the unsavory possibility that he knew even better than those boys how a man could part my legs. Ultimately, his leer told me that he’d like nothing better than to have a go at me.
I was stunned, instantly humiliated, so ashamed that for the eternity of a split second I froze in a clichéd deer-meets-headlights trance. I blushed so hard, it hurt. I prayed that his niece, my best friend, didn’t notice his drunken leer—or my embarrassment. It was all so lump-in-the-throat disturbing and repulsive.
“Meet me outside,” I told my girlfriend. I fled the room with, I hoped, some measure of grace to conceal my plight. But my every step felt clumsy, leaden, and weighed down by my shame. I could only assume success because no one questioned my behavior.
In the fresh air of the cool evening, the blush of humiliation faded from my cheeks and my racing heart slowed. But a rush of anger followed on its heels and I grew as livid as that man had been lurid. My anger was so potent, I shook uncontrollably.
There, in the coming darkness of midsummer’s eve, I vowed to myself if a man ever leered at me again, I wouldn’t let it go uncontested. I’d glare back and stare him down. No one else would ever have the upper hand again.
Or so I thought. In the coming years, my vow would protect me from men but not from my own fantasies. You see, I never forgot his leer and I often recalled the moment I spied it. Then, in the privacy of my fantasies, I enacted my vow and stared him down. My own eyes would narrow; my lips would slip into slyness. I would up the ante rather than diffuse the moment. In my fantasy, we’d slip away so I could reveal to him my brazen and knowledgeable self. In my fantasy, I was forever eighteen, but in real time I was forever aging and my past shame had transformed itself into pure thrill.
If my fantasy became luridly skewed, then my reality grew downright warped. I developed a preference for older men, starting with college professors and, later, on-the-job superiors. I wasn’t bucking for the dean’s list or top-notch performance appraisals; I could earn those on brains and merit alone. I wanted them because I lusted for the raw power of an older man, one willing to foist his sexual prowess on younger flesh. And I craved being that younger flesh.
I craved Daddy fucks.
But now that I’ve reached forty, finding a good Daddy fuck isn’t that easy. It’s hard to find savvy older men who can look beyond the middle-aged woman to see the inner girl, to find men who don’t apply the strict numeric standard of “27 and under” in defining girl.
Funny, really, because younger men often look my way, hoping to catch my gaze and interest. Sure, young hunks crave an older woman’s worldly experience but however trendy MILFs might be right now, younger men were never credible candidates to me.
Ironically, the Uncle Leer of My Ages Past was. Or so I discovered several months ago, at a cocktail party.
It was one of those business soirées where your vendor woos you like some smarmy Victorian suitor, plying you with promises and hints of good things to come if only you’d let him cop a quick feel. I had just slipped a tip into the barkeep’s cup and, drink refreshed, turned toward the client-based crowd.
And there he was: Uncle Leer, older now and totally sober if his seltzer water was any indication, chatting up a colleague. As age is likely to make a person, he was heavier, his hair thinner and gray, but time hadn’t changed those subtle movements you never forget. He was instantly recognizable.
Somehow, he sensed my dumbfounded stare and, catching me, cocked his head in a “do I know you?” manner. I smiled slyly—without leering, of course—and issued a teasingly non-verbal “try me.”
Soon enough, I had my chance. As our second, late-night dinner date concluded, I challenged him, leer and all, on the veranda at an Italian restaurant. Alone, we kissed and, in close embrace, I brought my leg up to his hip. Instinctively, he reached for my thigh, slipped his hand under my skirt, and caressed my panty-less rump.
“Try me, Daddy,” I invited.
He would—often, in fact.
Widowed, Daniel still lives in the same ranch-style home of leer past. Initially, it felt odd to revisit the home of the man who had first humiliated me, the man who had unknowingly inspired my private fantasies and my real-life thrills, but now I craved Daniel’s upper hand, especially after falling in lust with his frequent erections. So when he messaged me—Girl, in my study. Over the desk. 6:00 p.m., pronto.—I went.
There I waited, bent slightly at the waist and leaning forward, hands propped on the desktop, legs spread. The position, the waiting, the anticipation, all made my cunt ready for action. Impatiently, it throbbed and threatened to go wet at the least provocation.
The longer I waited, the more my senses buzzed, heightened and aware, and when Daniel finally approached me, the sound of the den door shutting and locking, the rustle of his clothes as he neared, the pace of his breathing, even the scent of his aftershave, all of it blared in my senses. It was as if my awareness was predicated on his presence.
He was behind me, lifting my skirt. When I felt his warm hands caressing, I knew he was admiring my naked ass.
“My daughter’s coming over in a while with the grandkids. Let’s hope she isn’t early.”
I shuddered at the thought. Who knew where he’d have me if she did arrive early. Mid-orgasm? Mid-fuck, even? The possibilities worried me because I wasn’t exactly the world’s quietest fuck.
Daniel came around to the front of his desk and reached down. A discreetly hidden wrist cuff chained somewhere to his desk appeared in his hand. He drew it tight around my wrist.
My captivity had commenced.
As my other wrist and both ankles felt a similar grip, my legs spread just shy of uncomfortably wide, I quivered. The unforgiving hold of bondage always made me aware of just how completely I had given myself over to him.
I stood, leaning forward just enough so Daniel could access whatever he needed of me, hands on the desk but chains taut enough that I had little leverage. Already my wrists complained about my forward weight and I wondered how long I could maintain this position.
Daniel came behind me again and resumed caressing my ass. I knew how inviting a sight I was—bound, skirt hiked high, my rump and slit exposed—when Daniel leaned against me and pressed his erection against my ass. His breath heated my neck, as if he was a wild animal at my back. My cunt throbbed, telling me to respond and press back into him. I did, moaning and wanting it.
“My housekeeper must think I’m nuts,” he said.
What? What did his housekeeper have to do with me? It was an odd non sequitur to come from him and it drew me up short.
“All these years,” he explained, “she paid careful attention to this space, knowing how to dust around depositions and briefs and legal journals, just so. And then I told her not to bother anymore. I claimed I had really retired, after all this time.”
He nibbled my ear and murmured, “Maybe I should just tell her the truth—that every week, a perfectly fuckable girl stops by, gets tied down, and takes it from behind, right here in this room.”
I whimpered, not so much at that unlikely scenario, but because he might really brag as much to fellow legal beagle retirees about his fucktoy. It took no stretch of my imagination to envision him talking about my willing cunt while lounging poolside with the old boys at the country club.
Daniel kissed and nibbled his way around my neck. He stroked my long hair out of the way, then reached forward. He cupped and caressed my breasts, then slowly popped open the buttons on my blouse. He nibbled my neck until, last button undone, he pulled my blouse over my head and let it drop to my cuffed wrists. He returned to my br
easts, this time kneading them earnestly. We both moaned as he circled each nipple, as he pinched and stretched them. Again I quivered, which prompted Daniel to jab his still-clothed cock against my backside yet again. I groaned, hoping he’d impale me right then and there and put me out of my aroused misery.
But he relinquished his hold on me instead and came around to the front of his desk. He opened its center drawer, a drawer that no longer held the tools of his trade but now held the temptations of his perversion. I never knew what might emerge from that drawer—a crop, a paddle, a pussy whip—but whatever he chose, I knew I would fall prey to its testing and taunting.
This time, nipple clamps appeared, flat and broad things, tipped with black rubber and connected by a chain lead. They weren’t the meanest clamps ever made, but I moaned at the sight of them, knowing they could hurt and arouse. I awaited them with mixed expectations.
Wordlessly, Daniel leaned forward, grabbed a nipple and deftly placed the clamp around it. My breath caught in my throat as the initial pain melted into unmistakable bliss. Just as deftly, he put the other clamp in place. The economy of his movements seemed routine, objectifying, and I faded a bit, the way I always do when he plays with me like I’m some toy, some amusement. Any thought of struggling against my bondage in protest evaporated in the haze of this endorphin surge.
Daniel laughed. He knew my responses well. He picked up the lead that hung between my breasts and found its center. I stiffened and braced myself for his pull. When the clamps bore down on me, I cried out through gritted teeth and arched my back. I tried to stomp my foot, but the bondage rendered my protest pointless.
“What? Does that hurt?” he taunted. “I thought you could stand more. In fact, I know you can.”
He pulled the lead as far off to one side of my body as possible, contorting the direction of my hanging tits. Pain twisted through them and I begged for his mercy. Daniel pulled to the other side and I struggled so much that the chains scraped against the fine finish of his desk. A rush of meek, frantic pleas—“Oh please, oh please”—issued from me, but Daniel knew better than to listen.
“Your mouth says ‘mercy’ but I know what you’re really thinking,” he teased.
“You don’t want mercy. Do you?”
He pulled the lead in the opposite direction.
“No, of course not. That’s not what you’re thinking.”
The lead moved again, still twisting and contorting.
“Tell me what you’re really thinking.”
I squirmed through it all. Like percussion, the chains that held me rattled where they could or thumped dully against the carpet where they couldn’t. My struggle grew not just because of the clamps’ severity, but because I knew what he wanted to hear. I knew what he wanted me to admit. But I couldn’t utter the words. My mouth gaped like a fish, but the words just wouldn’t come.
“Mute? You’re mute?” he cried, astonished. “You need some encouragement, I see.”
He pulled straight and although the pain no longer twisted through me, it continued apace and, weary, I began to lose my battle against it.
“Yes, let me help you,” Daniel offered, his voice anything but charitable.
He pulled the lead even more, making the clamps bite deeper still. My torment shot upward, at once wretched and wonderful.
“You don’t want mercy. At least not mercy from these clamps. Do you?”
The fire in my tits blazed as he pulled. I gritted my teeth and whimpered through my teeth. Still, I couldn’t speak.
Daniel continued his steady, unrelenting pull, as much in words as in actions.
“You want mercy all right. You want—”
He pulled so hard the clamps tore from my tender nipples. I bellowed as their release stung me.
“You want a mercy fuck, don’t you? Don’t you? Admit it! You want me to take you right now and shove my cock up that hole of yours, don’t you?”
When the clamps tore from my nipples, Daniel tore whatever resolve I had to shreds.
“Yes! Yes, I do! I want you to fuck me!”
Daniel went behind me. It seemed like he towered over me, me with my burning tits and ready cunt. I heard him unzip his pants. They fell to the ground, pocket contents jangling. Access was a footstep away, ensured by my ensnarement.
Step up to me. Please, step up to me, I silently begged.
Daniel did. I felt his cock brush against me, but its hard touch was fleeting. His hand, however, was a different matter. It grabbed me between the legs, cupping my pussy the way it had earlier cupped my breasts.
“No,” I heard. “Not yet.”
Daniel’s words made me admit defeat. I abandoned the semi-upright position I had held for so long and collapsed over the desk, sending the chains slack and noisy. If I could have wept in frustration, I would have, but Daniel’s straying finger found my clit and bliss thwarted me. Rubbing, pressing, coaxing, he gave me pleasure so incredible and so luscious that I went as slack-jawed as some addict drifting in aimless opiate pleasure. But I was not to stay there.
A bright and burning smack sounded across my ass and demanded my attention. More smacks followed and the sweet burn of one escalated into the agonizing sting of many. I moved from meek whimpers to outright cries, unable to distinguish lust from pain. I screamed, out of dismay, out of arousal, out of pain.
Daniel forced a hand over my mouth.
“Remember my daughter might arrive any moment.”
Yet still he smacked me. I squirmed to escape him, just inches really, but enough to signal I couldn’t take any more. It didn’t matter. Daniel didn’t stop until my cheeks were ember red. Then he caressed my ass gently, just like in the beginning, and it made me want him all over again.
Even then, he wasn’t done toying with me. He grabbed my burning cheeks and spread them, stretching and exposing my asshole. I could sense his cruel delight at having me any way he wanted, but I prayed for his cock elsewhere, where I needed it so desperately. He let go of my asscheeks and brushed his fingers against my slit. Sticky juices smacked as my lips parted to accommodate him, and the sound of my own wetness and his sudden intrusion startled me.
“What a ready little thing you are,” Daniel clucked. “Could it be you’re expecting to get fucked, dear girl?”
A whimper was all I could squeeze from my lips.
“Oh you can do better than that, my dear,” he chided. His fingers left me, one settling on my clit. He leaned into me again, his breath on my neck, and spoke. “Better fess up, better tell Daddy what you need.”
I moaned, my cunt convulsed, hinting at what it would give him if only he’d work that clit. His finger heeded its promise and they conspired against me, that cunt and my Daddy.
“Maybe you just need to come once and I can consider my work done.”
My cunt spasmed, demanding I answer his question. It wanted the satisfaction of cock and it didn’t want me ruining things. I obeyed and confessed.
“No, Daddy, no! Coming won’t be enough!”
“What will be enough?” he coaxed. “What will make you a happy little girl?”
He pressed harder into me, thrumming my clit faster. I felt my cunt tighten, then gush. I was irrevocably wet. My cunt, I knew, was swelling, readying itself.
“What do you want, little girl? Tell me.”
Daniel’s voice grew demanding now, matching my cunt’s insistence. How well they worked against me, I thought as I exploded into a deep, prolonged orgasm. And as I fell from that precipice, Daniel cupped my sex in his hand and squeezed. Hard.
“Tell me!”
The agony of his hand wrenched the very last of my reserve. I pulled against my bondage and screamed, “Cock, Daddy! I want cock!” Keyword uttered, my admission was voiced and I collapsed across the desk one last time.
“Cock? You want cock?”
Daniel planted a hand on my hip and aimed at my swollen slit. He pushed hard, refusing any resistance from my body, and satisfied, my cunt delivered its sou
l to the devil that was my Daddy. It yielded fully.
“Here’s your cock, girl.”
He took me with slow, methodical strokes, and as he did he felt huge, fierce, relentless. But soon enough, his pace escalated until a moan signaled his peak and in deep, stabbing thrusts, he came. But it was all too quiet and much out of character. Where had his loud and ferocious self gone? Curious, I looked over my shoulder.
He was leering at me. Lips curled just short of a smirk, eyes narrow and discerning, his face bore that same selfish desire I had seen decades ago, and it was as thrilling to witness in real life as it had been to imagine it in all those years of fantasizing. But the sight of it made me wilt and I realized that my vow, the one I made so long ago, had now shattered completely. And as Daniel pulled out of me, moaning and shuddering, I realized I wanted to be like my vow, nothing if not broken.
All because of a leer.
On Top of the World
Thomas S. Roche
The guests had stayed late, which is why Stephanie and Aidan found themselves on the rooftop patio at two in the morning, drinking Australian Shiraz and listening to Doctor Hot Sax’s Late-Night Bop Hour on the jazz station. It was a gorgeous night, pleasantly warm on the roof but sweltering down in the apartment. They had brought up a blanket when they decided to stay up—but it was warm enough that they didn’t need it, and the blanket stayed neatly folded on one of the spare chairs. The faint sounds of city traffic could be heard far below, but the rest of the building was somber as a church. Buildings stretched as far as the eye could see—lofts, office buildings, and high-rise apartments, most of them lower than the newly renovated apartment building, which meant that the whole city was presented in a panorama of urban sprawl. This far downtown, most of the buildings went dark at night, so you could even see the stars, spinning overhead in a great ballet, one that became decidedly more spinny whenever Stephanie put her head back and looked up.
